A Premonition of Drift-Design
by Shirokokuro
Summary: With Dad gone, Tim's on his own, half alone and half together, enough that he thinks he could get along fine by himself. But that doesn't mean he has to. Alternatively, five times Tim gets lunch with his boss. (No Capes!AU, Intern!Tim)
1. Slipstream (Prologue)

_AN: Finally getting around to cross-posting this story here on FF. I was originally planning on having it as a new chapter in_ If that Happens, I'll Catch You_, but at 17k+, it's kind of too long for a one-shot anymore. (Oops.) Good news is, this whole story's already done, so expect frequent updates. ^^ _

_*The title of this fic is lifted from a line in __Joanna Klink's poem "Winter Field."_

* * *

**Chapter One: Slipstream (Prologue)**

Tim's first thought is that Bruce Wayne is so much taller in person. He's seen pictures of the man, sure. (He's in just about every paper these days.) But Tim never had to crane his neck to see the Gotham Gazette, unlike he is now. That fact leaves Tim torn between melting into the floor and outright staring—himself doing the latter until he gets caught.

The CEO flashes him a gentle smile, laidback if not a bit intrigued by the teenager who's stumbled into his office. It's one of those expressions that's markedly kind. Tim's not sure what to make of that.

"This is the applicant we accepted for the summer internship," someone next to Tim is saying over a clipboard. Caroline Crown if he remembers correctly. "He's young, but he met all of the qualifications. He came highly recommended."

A thoughtful sound comes from the other side of the office, and Tim fights back the urge to watch the floor when Bruce Wayne draws a bit closer, back straight as a flagpole while his hands are clasped behind his back. The Gotham sky is glowing out the window behind him, all white clouds and white sunlight, and it makes for an impressive image.

Bruce Wayne's directly in front of him now. "I look forward to having you with us, Mr. Drake—" A hand extends, gold cufflinks sparkling. "—or do you prefer Timothy?"

It's a given that Tim's entire hand could fit into the man's palm, a dogma that is overwhelming as the teenager sizes it up, like he's fallen into Gulliver's Travels or Wonderland or any place other than reality; he's never dealt with corporate suits before. A small breath leaves before Tim shifts to take the hand. "Tim is fine, sir."

The gentleness of the handshake isn't what Tim was anticipating, firm but not bone-crushing.

Maybe his nerves are obvious. He hopes not.

"Wayne Enterprises takes great pride in how we treat our employees," Bruce Wayne is saying, hands in his pockets now. Casual. "If you ever have trouble, feel free to let me know. I'm always happy to help."

Tim's pretty sure that's a lie. Someone like Bruce Wayne wouldn't have time enough to spare on him, no matter how nice he might be. Tim doesn't point that out, though. He opts for a "thank you, sir" instead, short and sweet.

"Just Bruce is fine," the man waves off coolly.

First name basis? That can't be right either. But Tim nods anyway to show he's understood, and Ms. Crown looks antsy to clarify what exactly Tim will be doing for the next three months, eyebrow quirked over her glasses as if to imply urgency. Mr. Wayne must pick up on it, as he dips his head in her direction.

"Right this way, Mr. Drake," Ms. Crown indicates, quick to usher Tim out broad doors before a voice catches them.

"Ah, one more moment, please."

Both Tim and his guide turn in tandem. A strange expression has settled over Mr. Wayne's eyes, clouded as the skies behind like some premonition has dawned or a ghost has appeared. For a few seconds, the man looks at a loss for what to say. "Just…" he elucidates, "if you _do_ need help—anything at all—don't forget: You're always welcome to speak with me."

The man remains conflicted looking, but he tightens his jaw as if to say the reply is finished. Ms. Crown processes the signal, herding Tim out of the room without missing a beat. Tim's too perplexed to protest, eyes cast off to the side in thought, because Bruce Wayne was…different. Different from what he was expecting, at least.

Still, he doesn't think too long on the words.

* * *

Two years pass without much fanfare. School years fill with homework and generic thoughts while summers balloon with paperwork and conferences. Wayne Enterprises takes Tim every time he applies, and Bruce Wayne always tells him the same thing, like he can see something on the horizon that Tim can't. They run into each other frequently, actually—more than Tim thought they would. At first they would simply catch each other in passing, a short hello and a warm smile, but it steadily became a daily tradition that the CEO linger by the front desk to ask Tim how his summer was going or what his family was up to. Dad doesn't care for the man much, but Mr. Wayne continues to be a rock of sorts, dependable. Tim doesn't mind that. Maybe he even enjoys it sometimes.

And it's almost ironic, in a way, because the summer Mr. Wayne's personal secretary takes leave, the month Tim offered to fill in, is the time life changes…

* * *

It's a form of hyperawareness, Tim's guessing.

Thoughts aren't really registering passed the AC air that's biting, piercing the thinness of his T-shirt and raising goosebumps along his skin. In spite of the cold, Tim doesn't do anything but sit still, watching cops pass him by. Badges on hips catch the light, some officers in uniform while others wear suits, yet they all look the same to him: a pair of shoes that he's shadowing aimlessly with his eyes. Doors are closing somewhere in the mess, too, interrogation rooms, offices, but Tim can't process any of them, like life is something he's waist-deep in but can't surrender himself to. The closest he can get is letting his vision drown in the floor and the shoes that swim by.

Two of them stop directly in front of him.

Tim's seen this pair before; there's familiar cigarette ash and dirt caking the tops. They belong to someone who's been in the field quite a lot, he thinks, someone who knows how to handle robberies and homicides and…whatever this is. The man's qualified and kind, but no matter how many times he comes, Tim doesn't look up to meet his face, hasn't done it for anyone. Just watches shoes on tile.

"Timothy?" the voice finally arrives, a bit gravelly but grandfatherly still. "We're still speaking with your stepmother. We should be done soon, but in the meantime, I did make that call for you…."

The older man says something more, but the words drift.

_Dana._

Tim almost forgot.

She's been talking with officers for a while now, swept off somewhere in the creak of a door hinge. Tim hopes she's fine, hopes that some semblance of life will stay the same after all this. She's fine. She has to be.

Tim can hear an uncomfortable pause, like he's zoned out again (probably has) and everyone's afraid if they touch him he'll break. Tim doesn't know if he really would or not, is too tired to think about it. Instead, he watches a new pair of shoes shift in front of him, noting they're not the shoes of officers or detectives. The tops are scrubbed raw enough that they reflect everything, beaming bright as a surgical light. It's almost as if Tim's going under at a hospital fifty times over within the span of that one second, and he closes his eyes and waits for something like a scalpel or anesthetic.

Neither come.

Instead, something settles around his shoulders, the heft of a jacket, maybe, and the jolt brings things back into focus—just a bit, but enough.

"Thank you, Commissioner."

Tim recognizes the voice of the newcomer, an identity snapping into place with the timbre, low and calm, as if this person could speak and the world would fall back into order. Something about that's comforting, familiar and in control.

Tim's surprised he came.

A weight sits down next to him on the bench, air void of smoke smell and telling Tim the commissioner must have taken his leave. He doesn't even recall the sound of someone walking away, but the past hour has all been that way, time bleeding and stretching before skipping forward a few beats in the pause.

Who knows how long this silence stretches before it breaks, how many words the person next to him says before Tim processes them. There's only one thing setting in, and it's all Tim can say.

"…It doesn't make sense."

Tim can feel what he knows are blue eyes focusing on him. He doesn't meet them. "My dad—I was on the phone with him. He was just out on a walk, and I... How did…?"

_How did it go so wrong?_

Time stretches, skips again, and Tim barely registers the arm reaching around his shoulder. "…I don't understand," he breathes into someone's chest, surrendering to the strain in his voice and eyes. "He was going to come back. He… He wasn't supposed to…"

"I know," someone says into his hair. "I know."

Does he, though? Tim doesn't really know himself, but he doesn't move, soaks in whatever warmth he can. It's probably selfish and childish and he'll regret it because Dad doesn't care for this person much. (_"Didn't care." It's past tense now, Tim._) But for just this moment, for right here and right now, he closes his eyes and breathes, tries to tether himself to the present and a voice.

"It's okay."

Tim hopes so, hopes Dana will be fine and that life can go on without Dad here. Somehow, things will get back to being like they used to, right? Get back to being able to look people in the eye and not wish they were someone else?

It's possible. It has to be, because right now—

"It's okay."

—He just needs to believe it.


	2. Anchors and Ships Adrift

**Chapter Two: Anchors and Ships Adrift**

Mr. Wayne stays with him until Dana is finished talking with the police. He offers to take them home, but Dana says she's well enough and thanks him with that soft grace she has even in the face of tragedy. Tim's not as well-versed; he just nods awkwardly when the man offers him a gentle clap on the shoulder, murmurs out a barely audible "thank you" that he means more than anything, and from there on out, the weekend goes by in a blur. It's all operating on autopilot, on Tim forcing himself to get up, take showers, plan funerals. A date two weeks from now is circled on the fridge calendar in a stark red. Tim can't help but stare at it when he sits at the kitchen table, catches glimpses of it when he's working on a eulogy, pondering how to summarize forty years of life gone too soon. In the end, the eulogy's both unfinished and generic. Unfitting. Jack Drake's face appears in the Sunday papers beside those whose ages peak in their 90s, a door-step-delivered slap-in-the-face that Tim buries at the bottom of the trash where Dana won't see it.

She doesn't.

Come Monday morning, it's almost impossible to get out of bed. Tim spends a good hour staring at his ceiling, wide awake because he's slept as much of the weekend away as his body will physically allow. He just listens to the pavement crackle beneath car wheels outside his window, drowns in the thrum of the pipes when the person next door turns on the shower. Tim doesn't even know what he'll do anymore in the now-empty apartment.

Dana's been gone since yesterday.

Tim's alone.

That fact is just another reason he has not to get out of bed. He could stay here all day, curled up with three blankets as solace and one of Dad's too-big T-shirts on. The reality of that leaves Tim's eyes roaming the room purposelessly, tired. After an eternity, they settle on the plastic of a garment bag. His work clothes are dangling from a hook on the back of his bedroom door, the suit sliced by a sliver of light slipping through the shut window blinds. It's symbolic in the most mawkish way imaginable, but Tim still watches the dust twirl in the light for a while. It's something to do. That's what he's needing.

The dulled blue of his eyes find their way back to the suit, sharpen on it slightly before he lets out a sigh. He's exhausted, the kind that's sunk deep into his bones and is drumming in his head. The better part of him repeats, _You need something to do. You can't stay here forever._ Tim would like to, though. He really would, but he knows he has to leave the apartment eventually.

So, slowly, he comes to a decision, and he heaves himself up.

* * *

The moment after the elevator opens is one Tim tries to ignore. He can feel the silent tension on his skin, but he lets himself keep typing as if doing his normal work will make him stick out less than he actually does.

"Tim?"

Tim's eyes flicker up from his computer, hands stilled over the keyboard mid-sentence. It's the draft of a speech, some hospital fundraiser that Bruce Wayne attends annually. The gala isn't until next month, but here Tim sits regardless, parked in the anteroom outside of the CEO's office at seven a.m. on a Monday. It's not abnormal, not really, but circumstance colors everything.

"Tim, what are you doing here?" Mr. Wayne asks, looking genuinely concerned as he gets off the elevator. The expression on the man's face is so divorced from his usually calm persona that it takes Tim a second to recognize the emotion for what it is.

"I'm here for work," the teenager replies simply, a bit lackluster.

Mr. Wayne continues to look thrown off, standing in front of Tim's desk like his bones have frozen over, so Tim ignores his first instinct to continue working. "Tim," the man tries again, his voice a mixture of shock and caution, as if Tim's glass and speaking too loudly will shatter him. "You should take the day off—or the week if you need to. Honestly, I can have the other intern cover some of this."

Tim shakes his head politely, surprising himself with how smooth the motion comes. "Tam's got her hands tied with the Mikalek deal," he answers, opting for typing in tandem with speaking now. "Besides, this is the last week of my internship, so if I took time off, it'd be a weird note to end on."

"You're more than welcome to come back next summer, Tim," Mr. Wayne counters. "But at least for today, I still think you might do better at home."

Tim removes his hands from his keyboard, putting on the bravest face he can. It's an expression he's learned from Mr. Wayne over the years, a fact that Tim only realizes right then, and he wonders how much of himself he's gained from other people, from Dana or Mom.

Or Dad.

"I'm fine, sir. Honest."

Tim's voice must falter somewhere, as Mr. Wayne looks like he can see straight through the lie. Most people don't realize, let Tim keep saying the same cliché over and over without ever trying to refute it, convinced it's the truth when it's not. But for whatever reason, Mr. Wayne is the only person Tim can never quite trick into thinking he's more okay than he really is.

"It's just…" Tim finally concedes with a small flicker of pain. "I need something to take my mind off things. I promise it won't affect my work, so is it alright if I stay on, Mr. Wayne?"

His boss spends another moment analyzing him, mulling the question over before the man nods in defeat. "I understand. I suppose I have a few things you can do for me—on one condition." A look of calm exasperation crosses Mr. Wayne's face for an instant, the kind that makes Tim straighten. "It's been two years. I promise, I don't mind if you call me by my first name."

Tim takes a moment to wipe the surprise from his own face. It's not that big of a request (Just about anyone Mr. Wayne interacts with on a daily basis is told to drop the formality.), but formality is a defense of sorts, so Tim's kept it.

"I…" the teenager starts in protest, words slowly failing before he lets out a deflated "okay" instead.

"Good," Bruce encourages, leaving Tim still confused as to how a two-year-old tradition can crumble so easily. "In terms of what you can do, I have a meeting with Dr. Baird from GU later this evening. If you're up for it, I'd like you to—" (It's at this point Tim realizes he should be jotting this down and scrambles for a pen. Bruce provides one like clockwork.) "—skim through his research, summarize, and find any inconsistencies that stick out. Also, check in with Lucius for me and make sure he has everything he needs for tomorrow's meeting. I have some paperwork you can take over to him while you're at it." There's a long pause in which Tim can feel Bruce's eyes on him while he finishes scribbling down the notes, too focused on whether or not he got it all down to notice the contemplation in his elder's face. "…And I'll need for you to clear my schedule from eleven to noon for the rest of the week."

Tim's eyebrows pinch with surprise. "All week?"

"All week," Bruce affirms seriously.

Rescheduling that alone will take Tim hours, and the teenager's left questioning what it is that's making Bruce flip his entire lunch schedule. (Blonde or brunette? Maybe Vicki Vale?) Regardless, most of those meetings have been penned in for months, and there's a particular one with LexCorp that's going to be a nightmare to reorganize. Being busy was what Tim had wanted, though. He'll just skip a meal or something. He hasn't been very hungry anyway, not since….

Tim shakes the thought from his head before it can get any deeper. "Alright," he breathes, crossing a "t" decidedly, "anything else?"

"I think that should do it," Bruce nods. His eyes find their way to a clockface on the wall. "I'll be at the Biotech labs for most of the morning, so if you need a break, call Ms. Crown. Understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne—" A pair of eyes refix on Tim. "Er…Bruce."

"You'll get use to it," the man replies with something close to a smile, the most genuine one Tim's seen in a while. "I'll be seeing you later, then."

"Oh, okay," Tim voices, wondering why he's second-guessing an exchange they share every morning. The curiosity only becomes clear a few hours later.

* * *

"That'll be fine, yes," Tim says into the phone. Bruce steps off the elevator then, 11 o'clock sharp, and Tim offers him a polite wave. "The third?" he says into the speaker. "Yes, I think there's an opening then at 2. It's only for thirty minutes, but…yes…yes…" Tim glances up again from the desk calendar to see Bruce still there, sitting calmly in one of the chairs lining the wall like he's waiting to pick his kid up from school. "I see," Tim drones into the phone, faintly curious. "I can definitely pass it by him." He cups a hand to the speaker and angles it away from his face. "Is next Monday an okay time to meet with Mathis?"

Bruce gives a look like he just ate something sour (Mathis isn't the best person to see first thing on a Monday.), and Tim would laugh at the expression if today was a normal day.

But it's not.

Instead, Tim settles for a smile, the small kind that starts in his eyes but doesn't go much further.

"Now that I look at it," Tim answers, "that time isn't going to work out. I'll have a talk with Mr. Wayne and see if we can't schedule for another day instead. Uh-huh…yes…sounds good. Thank you very much." Finally, the handset is placed back, and Tim reclines in his chair with a careful exhale.

"I'm surprised," Bruce segues, drawing himself back to a stand. "Don't you usually have lunch around this time?"

Tim sets to rearranging the office supplies that's since desolated his desk. "Too busy. I rescheduled your noon meetings for today, so if you're here about that, don't worry: You're free to go to lunch if you'd like."

"What do you have to do next?"

Tim jogs some papers before returning them to their designated pile. "I still have to reorganize the LexCorp meeting, but it'll only take an hour or two if things go well. I should have that mostly done by the time you get back from your break."

"Our break."

Tim blinks once. "Beg your pardon?"

"We're going out for lunch."

Tim blinks twice, and he's grateful there's nothing in his grip for him to drop. "But I… What about the meeting I have to—"

Bruce holds up his hand and presses his cell to his ear. "Hello, Ms. Crown?" (Instantly, Tim wants to melt into the floor.) "Would you be able to handle rearranging the LexCorp conference for later on the twenty-eighth? …You would? Wonderful. Thank you very much." It's almost melodramatic when Bruce taps the end call button, and Tim's confused for the second time that morning as he slowly pushes himself up. "You might want your jacket," Bruce is saying, already pulling the cloth off the back of Tim's chair. "It's pretty cold outside with the wind."

"Um, th—thank you?"

Tim really just wanted to drown in work for today, but it's made very apparent when Bruce is punching the elevator button for the first floor that that's not going to be the case.

Even twenty minutes later, it's remained a bit of a whirlwind. Tim's still trying to process the sensory things, the sun blazing the black of his hair and the faint ocean wind on his skin. The sidewalk's hard beneath his oxfords, and despite it being midday on a Monday, throngs of people are bustling between random food stands and trucks like it's a Sunday bazaar. It reminds Tim of the circus he went to as a kid. Smells the same, like deep fryers and salt air. There's even cotton candy being sold somewhere around here, too, Tim's sure of it, can almost taste the sweetness on his tongue.

Instead of looking up and taking in the sights, though, Tim keeps his head down and hones in on the pavement. The family in front is researching the weather ("Looks like sun all week."), but it's not much more than idle chatter, just something to focus on in the sea of people so he doesn't get swept away.

"You're not lactose intolerant, right?"

Tim looks up at the man next to him. Bruce Wayne is still there in the whirl, and Tim keeps waiting for him to vanish like a dream. They work together on the daily, yes. But Tim can't remember a time when it was just the two of them outside of work.

All except for the police station the other day.

Just that once.

"I'm alright, sir," Tim manages politely. Bruce shoots him a look, eyebrows raised. It's the kind of expression that says, "This is happening whether you want it to or not," so Tim relents. "Yeah, milk is fine."

"Good. Two please." A ten crinkles as it's handed to the person operating the concession. "It'd be a shame," Bruce goes on as he stuffs his wallet into his back pocket. "This stand's well-known around here for its shakes."

"Never been," Tim extends. He's watching the ocean, waves churning in the distance off the pier and kicking up wind. Tim has to close his eyes when his bangs get caught in the air.

"I'm surprised," Bruce comments good-naturedly, pressing a cup into Tim's hands. (Who would've guessed the man had a sweet tooth?) "We'll have to make a point to come again, then. I'm guessing you've never been to Joe's either?"

"The tavern? I've heard of it."

"That's the one. Their steaks are famous. The coffee's pretty good as well if I remember right." Bruce glances at Tim. The teenager's been eying the milkshake in his hands politely, and as much as the chocolate shavings on top look safe enough, he still doesn't have much appetite.

"That'll melt soon if you don't get to work on it," Bruce advises, something close to sympathy caught in his eyes before he harpoons his own shake with a spoon. The cajoling convinces Tim to scoop some whipped cream off the top and take a bite.

"So?"

Tim takes another bite with a civil hum of agreement. "It's good."

"Glad to hear it," Bruce smiles (Tim's pretty sure someone takes a picture nearby.) before directing Tim away from the stand to a collection of cheap, tree-canopied tables a short walk away. "Maybe we can try somewhere in Haysville too. There's a cafe near the park with a great view, the street-kind that's—" Another photo snaps, and Bruce shades his eyes in an urbane look of embarrassment. "—more low-profile. You understand."

Tim stirs at his shake. "That's really nice of you," he mutters, eyes gleaning the speckled plastic that composes the tabletop. "You don't have to go to so much trouble, though. Honestly, I'm getting along alright."

Bruce's face saddens a bit, like he's calculating how much weight Tim's lost in only a weekend of not eating. It can't be that much, but Bruce has some extrasensory ability to know anyway, and Tim can't actually remember the last time he ate something. He continues stirring his drink in avoidance.

"How's your stepmother doing?"

Tim pauses before taking a scoop of chocolate, mulling over how best to phrase his answer. Eventually, he dumps the contents back into the cup and continues stirring.

"She's in the hospital."

Bruce flinches horribly, and Tim's never seen him crack that noticeably—not even in meetings with Luthor. "It's not serious," Tim hurries to add, but Bruce's face gets even grimmer somehow. "Everything's happening so fast that…she's just having a hard time with it."

A hard time.

Tim could almost laugh at himself.

Dana can't even remember Dad's dead anymore, like memories stopped for her the second Dad's heart did, the moment an officer knocked on their apartment door with his hat in his hands and a look that stung with story.

"I see," Bruce exhales smoothly, still looking unnerved. His eyes are drilling Tim like he can see straight into his mind. "I'll have some flowers sent over for her, then."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that..."

People continue shifting about around them, seagulls scattered along the pavement as they pick at stray trash. A few of the birds squawk back and forth to each other, and Tim's thinking of the time he and Dad went fishing off the pier not too far from here. The fish were few and far between that day, so much so that they wound up throwing spare bait onto the wood planks to see how many gulls they could attract. Dad was thoroughly disappointed then ("Freighters're chasing all the fish off."), but still, Tim would go through life all over again just to see Dad pull in a reel and shake his head one more time.

It's such a stupid thing to miss, really.

"You're living at home by yourself right now, then?"

"Just until Dana's better," Tim breathes. (He almost forgot to for a moment.) "The doctor said the prognosis was good, so we'll just have to see." It's not a lie. Not necessarily. Tim's just not mentioning the sick feeling he has in the pit of his stomach. Because although it's hardly been a day, Tim's not sure how long CB will let a sixteen-year-old live alone before…

"Tim?"

The teenager zones back in.

Bruce watches him for another moment, concern written in his eyes. Tim doesn't reply, just waits until, finally, the man breaks the silence for him. "Want to go for a walk around the pier?"

Tim nods smally. He's still not all that hungry, and all in all, it's a pretty nice day. A bit cold right near the water but if Tim puts his hands in his pockets, it's not too bad. The sun's out and hot white, clouds weaving over and blanketing patches of earth in shadow on whimsy. The ocean top catches what light it can, deep enough that the bottom's lost, and Bruce lets Tim walk on the inside closer to the edge so he can look in to see if he can spy any fish. He sees a few and hates that Dad isn't here to try and catch one.

"Don't want you falling in," Bruce explains, a hand pulling Tim closer by the elbow and away from the water. Maybe he was getting a little too close; he didn't even notice. Tim notices when Bruce's hand leaves, though, and he's wondering if he's making the man uncomfortable by staying silent. Tim thinks he's said too much already.

"I'm sorry..."

Bruce looks genuinely confused, so Tim elaborates. "The other day, at the station. I'm sorry if I—"

"Tim." Bruce comes to a sudden stop, and the teenager follows suit. "Can I ask you a question?"

Tim gives a hesitant nod, hit with a pang of dread like he's somehow messed something up but doesn't know how.

"Why did you ask Gordon to call me that night?"

It takes a moment to digest the question. To be honest, Tim's not sure how to answer, not sure why, out of all the people in the world, Bruce was the one person he wanted to have there when it felt like his life was crumbling around him.

The teenager turns his head to look back out at the ocean, evasive. A few freighters are there, drifting on the horizon with low horns following, the sounds deep enough that they resonate against the bottoms of Tim's feet and in his chest like he's hollow.

"I guess because…you're the only person who's ever told me they'd be there if I needed them."

Tim pauses, and some part of him that didn't realize feels sad about that. It's sad because it's the purest truth Tim knows. Dad would come, maybe, but he never said he would, never made sure Tim knew, so Tim just…doesn't know. It's too late to.

"I remember that feeling."

Tim's eyes flicker back.

"I've waited in police stations before," Bruce says, and Tim realizes the man's been watching the ships too, a look in his eyes like he's adrift at sea himself, a little lost. His voice has changed as well, and there's a darkness there that brings to mind people with deep scars and heavy burdens. "I remember," Bruce repeats. "So, whatever it is you're going to apologize for, you shouldn't. I'm honored you trusted me to be that person for you."

A faint breeze fills the silence before Bruce clears his throat. "We should probably get heading back," he says, voice still haunted by a distant sadness. Tim wonders why that is, realizes he doesn't know Bruce half as well as he thinks he does. It's the kind of change Tim recognizes in himself, because there's a piece of Tim now that keeps looking for someone shifty in the crowds, for the kind of person who shoots fathers in alleys.

Maybe Bruce knows what that's like.

Maybe that's why he's doing this.

"Would you like to get lunch again tomorrow?" Bruce says abruptly, ripping his eyes away from the ships, and there's a faint gleam in his irises that throws Tim for a loop, that says he's more Bruce now and less…whatever he was a moment ago. "There're a few other places around town that are worth checking out, and I've got the time. I was thinking we could try Joe's tomorrow if you'd want, considering how fond you are of coffee."

It takes a moment for Tim to adjust to the shift, but soon enough, the teenager snorts. "I don't drink coffee that much, Bruce." The man tilts his head in response, as if to imply he doesn't agree but isn't going to argue. Tim writes it off with a small smirk, more and more himself. "But sure. Any place claiming to have good coffee is worth checking out, right?"

"Right," Bruce concurs, a smile in his eyes, sympathetic still but looking closer to the real thing. "But before that, we've got a while left 'til we have to be back. We can grab some more food if you're still hungry."

And Tim's surprised that he means it when he answers, "I might just take you up on that."


	3. What's Caught in the Shroud

_AN: Joe's Tavern is from The New Batman Adventures S1E1. (If you Youtube search "Batman and Gordon on new years day," you can watch the clip.) The owner's only got a minute of screen time, but I love him anyway._

_Somebloke - Thanks! The DCI similarity is just coincidence, sad to say. Caroline Crown was one of Bruce's secretaries from the Bronze age comics, and honestly, I just picked her for this fic because she has really sassy eyebrows. x,D_

* * *

**Chapter Three: What's Caught in the Shroud**

Eleven o'clock rolls around the next day. Tim's still faintly surprised when Bruce appears in front of his desk, waiting patiently for him to finish up an e-mail before whisking him off. It remains a weird feeling, but Tim's slowly getting used to the attention, grabbing his coat a little more eagerly than the day before, and ten minutes of Gotham streets and small talk later find the pair somewhere entirely new.

Honestly, Tim didn't know what to expect from Joe's Tavern.

Considering all the hubbub he's heard, he assumed it'd be a bit more extravagant, but it's small, unassuming. The type of place that leaves holiday lights out year-round purely to save the trouble of putting them back up.

Bruce strolls straight in with the confidence of someone who's been here before, so Tim follows.

A few people behind the counter shoot them quiet looks of surprise, whisper and whirl around like lost seamen craving cosmic guidance. An unenthused blonde marches up in answer, guiding them to a table and depositing a tome of a menu there. She must be tough to haul that thing around all day. It's like she's dropped a brick with the way it thuds.

The girl wanders off again, leaving Tim to admire the bits of duct tape breaking off around the book's spine and the faded "Joe's" printed on the front. Tim's already guessing the restaurant must hold a Guinness for the world's thickest menu, the pages so well-worn that they've puffed up like a startled cat, making it even more intimidating. Tim doesn't even know where to start.

"How about I order for us?" Bruce offers cordially, pulling the menu closer and leafing through it. Tim doesn't fight him for the honor. Instead, his fingers absentmindedly trace the ledge of the table where the wood lacquer has chipped off. He can still catch glimpses of people passing by outside the front window, jackets pulled close against the wind, and he's glad they snagged a booth near the back by the vents. The dry heat's made the leather seating crack over the years, but it's still welcome. Tim's almost dozing off in the warmth.

Eventually, Bruce is done vetting their options, rattling off an order to someone that Tim hardly hears. Bobby Day's playing on the jukebox by the entrance, drowning out the words, and Tim's watching a small group of men sing along off-key, cordoning the machine. One even has an arm draped around it like he'd give the Wurlitzer a hug if he could. There's a certain comfort that brings to the atmosphere, a no-judge casualness that Tim could lose himself in. It helps his worries fade into nothing more than white noise in a peaceful place, and that's...nice. He likes it here.

"Well, I'll be," someone says, and Tim's head tilts up. A new face is standing at the edge of the booth, coffee pot in hand and black bow tie sharp against the white of his shirt. He's a bigger man with a kind face, and he starts pouring coffee into a pair of mugs. "Haven't seen you around here in a long time, Mr. Wayne. We were all pretty surprised. You been doing alright?"

"I've been busy," Bruce says pleasantly. (He must know the man.) "My friend here's never been before, and he's a coffee connoisseur of sorts. Seemed like a problem that needed to be rectified."

"Definitely," the man nods solemnly, missing the sour look Tim shoots Bruce. (He makes it sound like Tim's hooked up to an IV of the stuff.)

"Tim Drake," Tim moves to introduce.

"It's a pleasure," comes the reply, and the mugs are set down to shake his hand. "Hopefully we'll live up to your coffee expectations, Mr. Drake: There _is_ a reason my name is Joe, after all." A wink flashes behind the man's glasses, the kind that nearly surprises Tim into a grin. "I'd stay longer, but you know how lunch rushes can be. I hope you'll be coming again sometime soon, though, Mr. Wayne. We miss seeing you around here."

"We'll see what the future brings."

The reply is more out of politeness than promise, Bruce throwing on one of those million dollar smiles he hands out at press conferences and meetings. Joe is too busy to notice it's faked, bustling off when someone shouts they need a refill, and Tim watches Bruce for another moment, trying to interpret what the evasion means.

"Be careful not to burn yourself," Bruce advises wisely while gesturing to Tim's cup. There's white steam swirling off the top, and the heat's burning against the ceramic when Tim moves to pick it up.

"Did you used to come here regularly?" Tim asks as he blows at the top of the drink.

"A long time ago," and there's a flatness there that reminds Tim of yesterday when they were watching the ships off the pier. He doesn't push the point, wouldn't be able to as that's the moment their food arrives and the topic changes.

Considering how many things the restaurant offers, Tim is surprised by how good both the meal and coffee is, simple while capturing the charm of something homemade. Bruce lightens up partway through, and they chatter about the weather and the songs playing from the jukebox. A few of them Dad used to like, Tim remembers, and Bruce lets him change the topic.

Truthfully, the more time goes on, the more Tim can't recall the last time he talked so much with anyone. No one's ever even feigned interest in computer algorithms for as long as Bruce does (Tim's almost convinced the man is actually interested.), and who would've guessed they'd both have a shared love of detective stories? Tim certainly didn't, but that subject alone kills twenty minutes of conversation without sign of stopping. Eventually, though, it's about time to be headed back, and Bruce swipes the tab before Tim can even put up a fight for it. The man's wandered off to the front, the cashier looking like she's about to swoon. (Billionaire playboys have that effect, Tim's learned over the years.) The teenager decides against interrupting, putting on his windbreaker and staying comfortably close to the heater while he waits.

The kitchen door has other ideas, though, almost bowling Tim over when it swings open, and it takes a second for Tim to recognize the figure that's emerged.

"Ah, glad I could catch you," Joe's eyes shine. A few new coffee stains are gracing his apron, but other than that, the lunch rush has left the man largely unscathed. "Figured you'd like something for the road—on the house, of course." A bag is foisted on Tim before he can process it, and when his brain registers that he should say thanks, Joe's already sizing him up with a nostalgic smile. "It's so good to see him out and about again."

Tim glances around to see if the man isn't looking at someone else. "Pardon?"

Joe waves off the comment easily, as if Tim's just joking. "It's just that I haven't seen Mr. Wayne smile like that since three years ago. You understand."

Tim continues to wait for the conversation to come out ungarbled, but Joe still has that nostalgic look, like he's proud of himself for being so painfully eloquent and that it should make perfect sense. It doesn't.

"What…happened three years ago?"

Nostalgia gives way to faint surprise. "Oh? You don't…_oh_." Joe scrubs a hand through his hair, obviously trying to find a good way to phrase what he wants to say. He's looking more uncomfortable by the second, and Tim's a fool to think that discomfort will somehow make the man more articulate. "Well…you know. With what happened in Ethiopia and all..." One of the man's eyebrows rises, like "Ethiopia" is a password into a speakeasy and has to be kept on the down low.

Tim glances once toward Bruce to make sure he's still out of earshot. The only thing of concern in that direction is the lurid shade of red the cashier's face is getting, so Tim turns back. "What do you mean?"

Tim can tell it's not something Bruce should overhear by the way Joe's eyes skirt to the register too, almost paranoid. "You know. _Jason_, his son. They used to come here all the time, those two. Kid was chock-full of cheek, but they were close. He died in the spring, I think. Three years back."

"Oh..."

"Yeah," Joe adds sadly. "Haven't seen heads or tails of Mr. Wayne here since. He took it all pretty hard, I heard."

Tim was vaguely aware of something like that having happened, one of those things people around the office whisper about only when they're sure no one's listening. No one ever mentioned names, so it was more guesswork that they'd been talking about Bruce. Tim's never really been sure.

"You take good care of him, alright, kid?" Joe's voice comes back.

Tim opens his mouth to answer, a nebulous "sure" on the tip of his tongue because the teenager's not sure how to handle his own grief right now, let alone help someone else with theirs. Grief's not something anyone can help, truly, sharp and unfixable like glass that's shattered on the floor. Putting it back together hurts, so it sits there, broken, and so does Tim. Bruce too, it seems.

"I—" Tim starts to say, unsure how to put words to his thoughts. Thankfully, that's the moment a hand falls on Tim's shoulder, gentle and familiar. Blue eyes are behind him when he turns, glowing with a spark of sunshine.

"Everything okay?" Bruce asks.

"Just building a rapport," Joe saves, serious air vanished, and Tim quickly forces his expression to match the new mood. "Telling him we need to be seeing you two back again's all. Isn't that right?"

"Yep," Tim agrees instantly, because Bruce looks like he's catching on that something's off. (Nothing seems to slip by him.) The man only spares another second vetting them both before he shakes his head.

"Alright," Bruce surrenders with a short glance at his watch. "We really should be going, though, Tim. It's a bit of a walk back."

"Yeah."

"You two have a safe trek, you hear?" Joe calls out the door, and then they're out in the August wind. It's to their backs, luckily, but still, the air's biting stronger than normal compared to yesterday's weather. Tim has to keep his head down against it. His mind's still whirling, caught in the breeze and the thoughts he's having.

Bruce, someone who revels in abject secrecy, took him somewhere personal.

It's taking a minute to set in, and Tim's glanced up to see the man surveying the sky, a summer blue that fades into white past the skyscrapers. "Autumn must be coming early," Bruce surmises, and he says it like he hasn't a care in the world.

Tim looks back to the pavement. "Must be…"

_"They used to come here all the time, those two."_

_"He took it all pretty hard."_

"Tim?"

He tunes back in at the name. They're at an intersection now, a swarm of people around them preparing to cross. Someone behind is talking loudly on their phone, another trying to sell watches to the people waiting, so it takes a moment for Tim to realize Bruce has continued speaking. "I hope you didn't feel uncomfortable back there. Joe means well. He's just more of the chatty type, likes to dig a bit."

"It was fine." Bruce looks unconvinced. "Really. I'm glad I got the chance to talk with him some. He seemed really nice. I can see why you like it there."

Bruce seems to believe that, and he faces forward again to check the light. There's something familiar about the way the sky glows on the tapestry of the world behind him then, reminds Tim of the first time they met at Wayne Enterprises three years ago.

People were talking the most then. ("Can't believe he's gone," one woman said. "So young, too.") Must have been around the time his son passed, Tim realizes, and suddenly, Bruce's behavior during their first meeting makes more sense than it ever has. It was probably why he offered to take Tim under his wing so fast, like it was Bruce's way of letting someone in—or letting someone go.

"Light," Bruce reminds, and the swell of people stir them forward across the street. The second they step off the curb, Bruce moves a fraction closer and holds his arm to keep them from being separated in the swarm, a hint of protection in the gesture that Tim recognizes from yesterday. It's weird to think it's only been 24 hours since they took a walk over by the docks; it feels like forever ago, somehow, and maybe this has all been for the best. Dad's still gone, somewhere far away from pain and heartache and Tim, but Bruce is here. And that—Well, that means more than Tim ever thought it would.

They step up onto the opposite curb, and Bruce lets go.

Wayne Enterprises is only one more block, signaling the end of their time for today, but Tim's overcome with an idea. It's the thought that Bruce could be on to something: Maybe letting someone in is a part of letting go. Tim doesn't really know if that's true or not. Mom went so young that coping was a different animal entirely then, more focused on getting closer to Dad and eventually to Dana, but Tim's on his own now, half alone and half together—enough that he thinks he could get along fine by himself. But that doesn't mean he has to.

"…Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"Would it be alright if I pick the place tomorrow?"

Bruce shoots him a quizzical look, mostly out of surprise, but he doesn't say no.

"It's just…" Tim elaborates hesitantly, "I know a Thai place near my neighborhood. It's a bit hole-in-the-wall, but…it's pretty nice. My folks and I used to go there every once in a while." Tim takes a small breath, this feeling growing that Bruce will turn him down, so he turns himself down first. "It's fine if you're not interested, though. It's not a super fancy place, like I said. I just thought—"

"Sure."

Tim almost stumbles on the pavement with how fast his head whips up.

"That sounds nice," Bruce comments, and he looks like he's being genuine, that kind of calm warmness he rarely shows in earnest emanating. It's encouragement in some form, chipping away at the chitinous barrier Tim's been building, and the effort shouldn't mean so much coming from his boss.

Then again, "boss" doesn't really seem to fit Bruce anymore. Mr. Wayne, yes. But Bruce is something else, like a mentor, maybe. A friend.

"I hope you know that means I'm buying," Tim warns lightly, stepping into the revolving doors of Wayne Enterprises' lobby. "No beating me to the check next time, alright?"

Bruce dips his head with an air of non-committance. "We'll see," he reasons seriously, but when Tim looks at Bruce sideways, he swears there's the ghost of a smile somewhere on the man's face.


	4. Baby's Breath, Bone Ash, and Sea Salt

**Chapter Four: Baby's Breath, Bone Ash, and Sea Salt**

"He paid again," Tim groans, slumping in the hospital chair while he stabs at a slice of pie. It's the freebie he got from Joe's yesterday, and as much as it's probably the best pie he's ever had, the dessert is small consolation. "How does he get it so fast? I swear he bribed the waiter to sneak him the check. That's the only explanation."

Dana just smiles, the type that crinkles her eyes and makes them catch even more in the light. She looks angelic like that, haloed with white hospital bedding and golden hair you'd never be able to guess was dyed. It's little wonder Dad fell for her, Tim thinks.

"It sounds like you've been having a good time," Dana says sweetly. "I'm happy. With all that's happened, I've been worried about you."

Tim can only offer a small nod, voice gone with the sudden reminder of the past week. "The restaurant's still the same," he switches after a long pause. "Food's as good as always. I'll have to sneak some in for you when I can."

Dana tilts her head in interest, reading into his discomfort. "Did something happen?"

A quick headshake answers the question, but Tim can't manage to meet her eyes. "No. Nothing happened…" He stabs at the pie again with little intent of eating it. "It's just… It felt the same."

Truthfully, Tim was almost knocked over by how similar the restaurant was, walls still caked with amber paint and the same smells of pad thai and curry permeating everything. It all felt so out of place, or maybe—maybe Tim was the thing out of place. Like nothing there meshed with the new world he was living in. What struck him most, though, wasn't that incongruity. It was the untouched familiarity of it all. Because for just one second, the past week melted away into any other week, today into any other day, where Tim, Dana, and Dad would go get dinner as a family because Dana had insisted the idea was a good one.

It still stung a bit, though, when Tim turned around to find only Bruce there, casually observing a place he'd never been to. It stung because it feels almost like Tim's betrayed Dad by opening up to anyone, like he needs to be miserable in order to prove to Dad that he meant something to him. His heart's still being wrung from the guilt even now.

"He'd want us to be happy."

Tim considers the statement with a hint of surprise, turning it over in his head carefully. Maybe it's something Dana has to remind even herself of, because it sounds like a phrase the doctors have told her, have reiterated until it sticks and feels more true than not. It doesn't do much to ease Tim's guilt now, but...it's something to think about, he guesses.

Dana's still here in the meantime and smoothing out a wrinkle on the bed sheets, the gesture gentle like she's petting a cat or a young child's head. After a few seconds, the crease has dissolved back into nothingness, and she sighs as if mourning the loss. Her hands fall back to her sides.

"Mr. Wayne sounds very kind," Dana restarts after a moment. "I'm glad you have someone like that looking after you. I only wish it could be me. It's not fair that you have to be alone right now. Going home to an empty apartment—That's just not right."

Tim sets his food down on the nightstand, careful to watch the bend of the Styrofoam packaging. "Don't worry about it, Dana. You just focus on getting better."

She exhales, long and slow, and stares forlornly at the ceiling. "I just want us to be a family again, the three of us. Wouldn't that be nice…?" Her eyes glass over then (It's been happening more and more.), so Tim waits patiently, letting whatever's come over her pass. Sometimes he measures the seconds, imagines that if the span between her lapses shrinks, it signals she's getting better.

The clock on the wall ticks.

Suddenly, the camber in the woman's breath shifts, and she bolts upright. "The invitations!" Dana exclaims, looking at Tim with revelation in her eyes. "I did send them out, didn't I? I can't remember."

Tim stares at her warily before nodding his head. He has no clue what she's talking about.

"Oh good." Dana allows herself to breathe again, hand on her chest as if to calm the paroxysm herself. "It'd be a shame if no one came to the wedding. All that effort of booking the chapel gone to waste. I'm sure we'd have a good time, still, but…"

She continues running through the people she wants to see there when she walks down the aisle, how Jack's family's small (only Tim) but there are still people he played football with in high school he'll like to have there. It's as if she's completely forgotten Tim's here, two years older even if he doesn't look it, and that the closest thing she has to a wedding dress is a hospital gown.

Tim's cracked open his mouth to explain.

She's been married two years, two years of living in the same apartment and watching football on Sundays with Dad, of going to that Thai place in Gainsly with such treacherous stairs they'd all hike up together and hold on like they were cresting Everest instead of a flight of steps.

But Tim doesn't say anything, just snaps his jaw closed and moves to take her hand.

Dana's gone mostly quiet again, watching a bouquet of flowers next to her while she hums something softly. It's probably a song off the top of her head. She used to do that all the time around the apartment, a silky tune that blended with the kick of the heater in the mornings and the thrum of the fridge. Home feels empty without her.

"We'll make such a happy family," Dana says, dreamlike. She's still gazing at the flowers, and Tim wonders if, instead of roses and baby's breath, she's seeing the hydrangeas she tossed behind her all those years ago. Tim hasn't been to many weddings (only the one, actually), but nowhere in memory has he ever seen Dad happier. Dana either. Maybe it's not such a bad memory to get lost in, Tim thinks. He almost wishes he could go there too.

Dana sighs again, the content kind people give when they've had a long day or a long life. "A happy family," she breathes, eyes closed. "That's all I've ever wanted."

Tim keeps running a thumb over the back of her hand, slow and steady, and it's only when he's certain she's fallen asleep, when her breathing's evened out and the sky outside the window's gone black that he replies.

"Me too."

* * *

"You look tired."

Tim's eyes trail up from where he's been staring at his reflection in his coffee. They made it to the place in Hayesville, the one near the park Bruce had mentioned, with outdoor wicker chairs and sun-bleached bisque umbrellas that somehow look more charming that way. The drained color is more than made up for by the trees in the park, the aspen bark ossified against copper leaves, an early sign of autumn.

Tim turns his attention back to his coffee, vainly hoping the earthy smell will revive him. "Yeah," he exhales after a few seconds. "I fell asleep at the hospital last night. The chairs aren't very comfortable." He settles further into the wicker, too tired to care much if Bruce will judge him. He already has a feeling he won't. "Dana got your flowers, by the way. She wanted me to tell you thanks."

Bruce hums in that ambiguous way he does when he's trying to take a compliment or deflect one. The line between them's blurry, but the pair's worked together a long time, enough that Tim can take a shot in the dark what Bruce is trying to say. Tim lets the conversation lapse into silence then, memorizing the sound of the leaves in the wind and the clack of shoes from passerby. A waiter's taking orders for a young family a few tables away, the parents obviously the well-bred sort while their young daughter romps around in disheveled braids and nice clothes beset by grass stains.

Tim sighs and goes back to staring at his food. It's something light, bread with fruit framing the sides with enough effort put in that he'd feel bad if he ate it. He probably won't: His appetite dissolved again last night. Instead, Tim sets into a pattern of moving the banana slices, berries, and kiwi to different regions of his plate. Bruce is watching him the whole time.

"Did something happen?"

Tim takes a breath and, instantly, all words die in his throat. He wants to say everything and nothing all at once. "It's just one of those days," he decides.

Bruce analyzes him for few more seconds, patient. "I see…" The way he says it makes Tim bring his eyes back up, just to show he's still present. "You know you can talk with me about anything, right?"

Tim nods slowly, digesting the words. "Yeah," he finally admits, putting down his fork and placing his hands in his lap, like he's trying to make himself physically small. "I'm just worried about Dana."

"Have the doctors said anything?"

A headshake provides the simplest answer, but Tim's certain his stress is bleeding onto his face. "No, they haven't. I just… I have this feeling." He shakes his head again, determined to drive the thought away, and he retrieves his fork. "That's all."

Bruce tilts his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Tim answers, trying to show he means it as he flashes a weak smile, because he's just overthinking.

That's all it is.

* * *

The clock on the wall reads 8:40.

Dana's asleep again, features softened in what must be a peaceful dream, but Tim doesn't quite have it in him to leave yet. He meant it when he told Bruce that he hasn't heard anything about her condition, but… She's the only family he has anymore, and it feels like she'll disappear somehow if he goes. That thought in particular is all he has on his mind.

She's all he has left.

Eventually, Tim leans back in his chair with a defeated air, time weighing heavily on his shoulders. After a while, he's half-way to falling asleep right there, ensconced in dim lights and the whir of the AC that picks up on occasion. His chin slips down, though, the jerk enough to bring him back to himself, and he sets to gathering his coat with motions leaning closer to somnambulistic than conscious. It's the same when he's out in the hall, closing the door behind himself as quietly as he can.

"Mr. Drake."

Tim's gaze snaps sideways. (He must really be tired; he didn't even notice anyone was there.)

"I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time," Dr. Hostler says, hands folded in front of him civilly. He's a lanky man, old enough that he's started to bend at the spine. Tim surmises it must be from all his years of bending over hospital charts or looking families in the eye from his tall height. He's been in this business a long time. Best psychiatrist in Jersey, people promised. It's why Tim catches a taxi from Gotham to Blüdhaven every night, because Dana deserves the best of something in all of this, and if the best Tim can do is the best doctor, then so be it.

Right now, though, the man looks less like a promise and more like an omen.

Dr. Hostler shifts somewhat, like he's not sure what to do. "I was wondering if I might have a word," he resolves, a polite ounce of discomfort in his face like he has bad news. Tim can tell it by the way his mustache droops around a frown, and the last thing Tim needs is something else to go wrong.

"Could it wait for tomorrow, sir?" Tim tries, thoroughly drained. He's already plodding his way to the stairs. "It's been a long day, and I—"

"If I may—" Whatever discomfort in the man's face spikes. "—I think it's best you hear this sooner rather than later."

"Is it something with Dana?"

"No. No, it's not that." There's a long pause, like it's only a half truth. "But yes. Your stepmother's condition is…well…" The man sends a look off to the side, likely in vain hope that someone will materialize out of the wall and take over for him. No one does; his attention is inevitably pulled back. "I was hoping she would be improving more by now, that her mind would be able to handle things piece by piece and, eventually, she'd be able to cope with everything that's happened. But I'm afraid that simply…hasn't been the case. I think it would be in her best interest if she stay longer than initially planned."

Tim can feel his mouth go dry at that. His mind's already two steps ahead of him but conversely lagging behind.

"How much longer?"

"Anywhere from a few weeks to a few months," the doctor offers, somewhat helplessly. Tim waits for more bad news, because there always is. "I'm sorry, Timothy, but you're still a minor in all of this, and I—I had to inform my higher ups of that. I mentioned that you come by every day, so they said it was easiest if I was the one to give you this." The man fishes around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a business card, a caseworker's name printed in simple black. Tim hates himself for taking it. "I know this is all happening very fast for you, but I—"

"Thank you, doctor," Tim cuts off. It's a bit harsh, but he doesn't want the sympathy. "I have a cab waiting outside, so if you'll excuse me."

Thankfully, the man lets him go, and it's mainly muscle memory that leads Tim outside. It's already after nine, the sky raven over fall fog that's rolling over the ground. There's no taxi—Tim hasn't even called for one yet—and so he keeps walking, out the front gates and down the sidewalk. There are a lot of trees out here, the facility located further out of main Blüdhaven. It makes for a nice stroll, the smell of lindens rich and navy in the night, and sparse lampposts sear a path for blocks. They paint the road white until Tim finds a bus stop. He'll still call a cab, but for now, he seats himself on a bench in the glass enclave and doesn't bother moving.

The business card's still in his hand, his phone in the other. Tim punches the dial icon on the screen.

He really should be calling the caseworker (He knew this was coming.) or at least a taxi, but instead, he finds Bruce's number and he considers it for longer than he can even say. A katydid's keeping time somewhere behind him. A car whirs by and rustles the cement. He hardly hears either.

After what might be a lifetime, Tim backs out of the screen and sets his phone on the seat next to him. He's still watching it, conflicted. But really, he's just tired—can feel his shoulders weighed down by some invisible weight, and there's this awkward heft to his chest that he knows is from stress but convinces himself is something else.

He's trying to think of what he'd even say to Bruce. _"Hey, I know it's late, but I'm probably going into foster care any day now. Just thought you should know."_ He shakes his head at the thought. If it sounds dumb in his head, he doesn't want to know what it would sound like spoken aloud.

The phone finds its way back into his hands, but Tim settles on calling for a taxi instead.

_I'll figure it out_, he convinces himself.

Besides, what could Bruce even do?


	5. Washing Ashore

**Chapter Five: Washing Ashore**

"You're sure he didn't say anything else?"

Caroline shoots him that look that says, "For the umpteenth time, yes," but Bruce wishes there was something more. A hidden tone she's not conveying, a double meaning. _Something_. The woman must be able to feel his unease, as she resigns herself to repeating the message for the third time that morning.

"Mr. Drake called me earlier today. Ten after five in the a.m. He said he wouldn't be able to come in to work today. And no," she starts when Bruce moves to ask—_again_, "he did not say why, and I did not ask. He sounded neither congested nor otherwise ill, but as you might imagine for five in the morning, he sounded tired. I opted to end the conversation swiftly for his sake, informed him that he was well within his rights to take the day, and I ended the call. That is all I remember. Now, is there anything else you'd like from me, Mr. Wayne, or am I finally allowed to brief you on your meetings for today?"

Bruce slumps back in his chair, capping and uncapping his fountain pen in thought. He's a bit disappointed, a bit worried. It's already eleven, and it feels weird not collecting Tim for lunch. Not even seeing him. He wonders how he's doing, if he's eaten, if he's slept. "No. Thank you for humoring me," Bruce murmurs, staring down a pile of dossiers on his desk. "I'll let you know if I think of anything else."

Caroline observes him with a deadpan look, that one that lets Alfred sleep well at night knowing there's another human being in existence who can cow Bruce into doing his work. The woman's already in soldier mode, pushing a folder in front of him and jabbing at the top with a no-nonsense look. "These are the details for the LexCorp meeting at noon today. Mr. Fox will be there as well, but as the largest shareholder of the company, your opinion will be _invaluable_." The way she stresses the word includes the meaning, "If you mess it up, I will personally make your life hell."

Bruce nods distractedly in reply, already missing Tim. The teen always phrases these things more amicably, and he can't help imagining where he is. Probably at home, in an empty apartment haunted by old memories. It's the worst feeling in the world, Bruce knows. He remembers losing his own parents, that feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world like a piece of jetsam. Losing Jason is a newer scar that throbs the same, makes everything in life seem insurmountable and lackluster, and he prays these aren't the things Tim is thinking about right now.

_I hope he's alright_, Bruce almost says aloud.

Caroline pauses in explaining a report to look at him, reading his expression. She merely shakes her head smally and continues, "This is for the next shareholder meeting. It's…."

* * *

Tim should call Bruce.

He means to—or at the very least means to ask Ms. Crown to pass on a message for him (a "Thanks for everything," maybe)—but it's too late. He's already ended the call. More than once Tim almost works up the courage to dial Bruce's number himself. He's rehearsed what he would say all morning while ghosting aimlessly about the apartment, the words refined into something close to perfection. Each time he moves to call, though, Tim catches himself with thoughts like, "He's probably busy," or "I'd just be bothering him."

Instead, Tim makes a different call that he knows he can't put off. The caseworker's a nice enough woman from what he can tell over the phone, polite, informed. She treats him like she recognizes he's practically an adult, and that makes for a promising start to the very thing he's been dreading. That doesn't mean Tim dreads it any less, though. The only change it brings is a time penned in on the calendar like a death sentence.

He's got until then to box up his life. Dad and Dana's too.

Tim only finds his way back to the couch, though, sinks down slowly with his hands in his lap while his eyes roam the room. The family photos on the walls. The stacks of Dana's old work-out DVDs under the TV. The lavender smell of her perfume still permeates the air, a wraith imitation of the real thing, and her and Dad's shoes remain in the doorway, a shrine of sorts. Tim can't bear the thought of packing them away, each pair representing the small hope he's got that his family will stroll back through the front door, that somehow, in another world, Dad never would've died in a nameless alley. No, he'd be bustling in right about now in that roughshod way of his, a grin on full display that Tim never appreciated until it was gone.

But…

It's not another world.

It's this world.

It's the one where Dad pulled on his coat, hollered to Tim that he'd be back in an hour, left.

And then never came back.

Tim can still hear Dad's voice as he watches the shoes near the entryway. He can hear the door click and the phone call and the gunshot. He remembers every bit of it.

The grandfather clock in the corner rings, and it jostles Tim out of the memory. It's noon, the hands remind. He and Bruce would be back from lunch by now. He never did call him.

Tim winces at the guilt there, pulls his knees to his chest and clicks on the flatscreen in hopes of distraction. He finds the sports channel, the same commentators Dad used to listen to providing a familiar comfort, and Tim watches fractions of baseball games with tired half-heartedness. It helps him feel a bit better—or at least, he convinces himself it does. The research he stayed up all night doing on foster families and group homes is splayed out on the coffee table the whole time, a testament to his situation. It's hard to keep himself from glancing at the papers with a twang of stress, the kind that feels like heartburn and existential crisis rolled into one.

After a while, Tim gives up on watching the games and fully loses himself to staring down the paperwork. There's a romantic gold light sprinkling over the sheafs from the window. It's almost mocking, considering what they mean.

Gotham's CB is backlogged something awful, which translates to a good chance that he'll be placed outside of city limits. Probably still in Jersey, his caseworker guessed, but really, it's more a luck of the draw thing. She didn't sound very sure.

Tim's smart enough to fill in the blanks anyway. He'll have to change schools, make new friends, hit restart, essentially. How he can do that, he has no idea. All he has is this premonition that he's cursed, that he's doomed to drifting between foster homes and families without ever taking root. It's almost fitting, in a weird way: the solitude of it all.

He's always had a knack for driving people away.

For whatever reason, the thought doesn't make it easier to say goodbye to this place. To home and family. He realizes then that he won't even have Wayne Enterprises to hold on to. Bruce either. His internship's only extended to Gotham residents, a grassroots program to highlight the city's youth. But if Tim's not in Gotham...

It means he might never see Bruce again.

Instantly, the guilt in Tim's gut jumps into his throat like the snap of an ember, pushing out air.

Bruce has been incredibly generous with both his time and kindness, a light in the dark that Tim never expected and doesn't feel deserving of, especially not now, considering he can't even be upfront with him in return. Dad would be disappointed, Tim thinks, if he could see him now. That fact bites worse than anything.

"What am I doing?" Tim asks the ceiling, self-reprimanding.

At the very least, Bruce deserves a goodbye.

Not a phone call either. Not a letter or a note or something done in hindsight. An actual goodbye.

And despite the lethargy nested in his spine and skull, one minute later finds Tim cramming his feet into a pair of sneakers and checking to make sure the door's locked behind him. He's made the trip to work at least a hundred times over his life, but he's never ridden this line of the Metro in anything less casual than a two-piece suit. Jeans are at least fine for the main lobby, Tim tells himself. Still, walking through the doors of W.E., he can feel himself accruing a hodgepodge of odd looks from people exiting the building. An older gentleman mutters something under his breath about hoodies breaking company policy, another about loitering and riff raff. A familiar face at the front desk is what saves him in the end.

"Tim!" Tam waves from behind a box of files she's looking through. Her smile's peppy as usual, fringed with honest joy at seeing him. "What're you doing here? I heard you weren't coming in today."

Tim can't make it to the front desk fast enough, withering under the appraising gazes. "Yeah, something came up. Is Bruce done with LexCorp yet?"

"As done as he's gonna be," Tam shrugs, a "You know as well as I do," way about her.

"What do you mean?"

"He only showed up for the first fifteen minutes of the meeting," she explains, leaning over the high partition with eager eyes. (Office gossip is the only thing that gets her through some days. With her job being handling Mikalek, Tim can't blame her.) "I thought Dad was gonna have an ulcer over it at first, but Crown agreed to fill in. She's an absolute beast, that woman. Seriously, Luthor left twenty minutes ago looking like he'd been hit by a city bus. Couldn't get her to budge even an _inch_ on selling out to LexAir. Can you believe it?" Tam snorts in blatant amazement. Tim's shock is even more so, perfectly evident because skipping a major meeting doesn't sound at all like something Ms. Crown would let Bruce off the hook for.

"Did Bruce mention where he was going?" Tim manages, fiddling with the pen on the desk. "I really need to talk with him."

Tam frowns, eyes sympathetic as she notes how many times Tim has wound and rewound the pen's chain around his finger. "I didn't ask. He looked like he was in a hurry when he left. Think he was taking the rest of the day off."

Something in Tim's chest shrivels at that. He's probably long gone.

"I can take a message for him if you want," Tam offers, looking like it's somehow her fault that Bruce isn't here.

"No, that's okay." Tim extricates the pen from his grip, setting it back in its holder. "It's more of an in-person kind of thing, you know?"

"I gotcha. Well, he's supposed to stop in tomorrow morning for a while to make up some work." (Tim winces. The teen probably won't be in Gotham by then.) "In the meantime, you just rest up, and we'll see you soon, okay?"

Tim and Tam have known each other for years. They're good friends, but when it comes to this moment, Tim would rather not have a breakdown in the middle of W.E.'s main lobby. Ultimately, he doesn't say anything more revealing than a "Thanks, Tam," before he's trudging back out onto the street. He'll have to visit her at her college sometime, apologize for not leveling with her. Tim just doesn't have it in him right now, not while he's thinking about having missed his opportunity to see Bruce one last time.

It's a wistful motif that sets the tone for his way back. It's the last time he'll step out of W.E., the last time he'll get swept up in the flood of business people talking stocks and bonds and feel the faint spray of the fountain outside the entrance on his face. Even the train ride back is nostalgic, Tim not able to do anything more than absorb it all, because of course, he forgot his phone at home. All he can do is people watch and catch advertisements streaming by outside the subway windows, trying to commit it all to memory while secretly knowing he can't.

By the end of it all, climbing the stairs up to his apartment feels like a monumental task. He's only got a few more hours before the caseworker picks him up, a few hours to finish packing away as much as he can and say his goodbyes to the place he's called home for years.

Tim bounces the apartment key in his hand once. The action itself nearly breaks him right there, but he's almost at his floor and it's better to lose face when there's no one there to see it. He's grateful he's so close to home when he opens the stairwell door.

It's a peripheral thing, something he notices without lingering on it, but Tim registers someone else in the hall. It's probably just his neighbor, the one that has a tendency to lock himself out, because the figure's talking on the phone with a bag in his hand. That's nothing unusual.

What's unusual is that, the closer Tim gets, the more the voice starts to process ("—Just call me back when you can, alright?"), and although it's a slow realization, he realizes he knows who it is and it's not who he thought.

"...Bruce?"

The man glances his way, phone still pressed to his ear while his eyes are hewed with worry.

"Tim," Bruce exhales, instantly sounding relieved. He stuffs his phone in the pocket of his suit pants. It looks like he hasn't changed since he left work. "Are you okay? I couldn't get ahold of you."

"Yeah. Sorry, I just… I forgot my phone at home." Tim gestures lamely to the door between them, shuffling his weight to a different foot. "I was at W.E., actually. I thought you'd still be in the meeting with Luthor."

It's Bruce's turn to shift uncomfortably, a rarity for him. "I was there for a while," he admits while admiring the wallpaper trim outside the door like the acorn-print is something esoteric. "I said my peace about it, and well, Lucius and Caroline can speak for me on the particulars. I had something more important to do, anyway."

Tim takes a step closer on instinct, earnest. "Is it something I can help you with?"

Bruce flinches a smile at the offer before shaking his head and drawing up the plastic bag he's got in his hand. Now that he looks closer, Tim can tell it's chock-full of smaller boxes (Thankfully it's double-bagged.), and he slowly realizes whatever's inside smells amazing. Like cinnamon, pandan, and something warm. "No, I only needed to drop these off for you."

The statement takes a moment to click. Tim blinks at Bruce, then blinks at the bag. The man gestures for him to take it, maneuvering so that Tim almost has to. "I wasn't sure what you'd be hungry for," Bruce says to fill the silence, still looking a bit out of place, "so I got a variety. I hope that's alright."

"Ye—yeah," Tim murmurs hastily. He can see through the packaging now exactly what all Bruce got. It looks like he culled something from each place they visited this week, everything still steaming, The plastic's coated from the condensation. "Bruce, this must've taken you ages to get."

"Don't worry about it," the man waves off, back to his debonair self. "I just figured whatever you didn't want you could save for later. I understand how hard it can be to take care of yourself, especially when you're alone."

"Alone…right."

Bruce still has no clue how true that is.

The man cringes at the word choice anyway. "That wasn't what I… I mean…" Bruce gives up in the end, rubbing out a crick in his neck with a self-frustrated grimace and a sigh. It sounds defeated. "Just take care of yourself, alright? If you ever need anything, don't be afraid to give Alfred or I a call, and well, I guess we'll be seeing you next summer, anyway. Don't be a stranger, though."

Tim nods quietly, biting his lip in thought. He spares a moment to glance in the direction of the apartment where he knows the foster program papers are, something he hasn't told anyone about and, honestly, doesn't know if he has it in him to.

Tim forces himself to face forward again.

Bruce has obviously picked up that something is off. Tim's pretty sure the man can discern the exhaustion haunting Tim's frame, the hollowed look in his eyes. There's really no use hiding it.

"I should get going," Bruce says cautiously, giving Tim an out. "I imagine you want some time to yourself."

It's a thoughtful action, but it makes Tim break out in a cold sweat. He still hasn't told him; this might be the last time they see each other, and Bruce doesn't even know.

In hindsight, Tim's not really sure how he does it. It almost feels like his body moves on its own or like the air pushes him forward a fraction, maneuvering his hand to fit the key in the lock. Tim forces the words out before he can take them back. "Actually, do you have time to talk?"

A split second eclipses the atmosphere, one in which Bruce analyzes him carefully, worry re-tacked to his face. "Of course."

The teen wars with himself momentarily over shouting out, "Nevermind," and ending things there. Anxiety's fizzling in his stomach, but the hardest part was just admitting that there was something more to be said. It's a start.

The reality of where Tim's been living is quickly obvious the instant he lets Bruce in. The teen's been to Wayne Manor before, and by sheer juxtaposition, the Drake's apartment right now is charmingly domestic at best and embarrassing at worst: Dishes dogpile in the sink, papers canvas the dining and coffee tables, and cardboard boxes are already stacked in the corner in anticipation, partially filled.

"Sorry about the mess," Tim excuses lamely, his mouth pulled to the side to imply, "Yep. This is it," as he picks his way over the shoes in the entry to pull off his sneakers and put the food on the counter. Bruce doesn't seem bothered, thankfully. He's busy absorbing every inch of the living room with as polite an air as possible, gleaning over what Tim now realizes is a Cubs game on the TV and the packing boxes towering like Jenga pieces ready to fall. It's not until Tim starts shuffling some of the papers together on the dining table, the crisp crinkling breaking the atmosphere, that Bruce looks his way.

Tim gestures for him to take a seat, and the teen drifts into the chair kitty-corner to him. That's as far as things go for a while, because that's as far as Tim planned. His mind scrambles to recollect the words he'd picked earlier this morning when he was thinking about calling, but they're washing away faster than he can remember them. Instead, Tim fiddles with one of Dana's hairbands he found earlier when he was packing some of the bathroom away. It snaps funny against his wrist, but it's something to do.

"Would you want some tea?" Tim stalls eventually, twirling the band around a finger. "I think we might have that Earl Grey you like. Or water, maybe?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Tim nods in turn, taking a breath so deep that it doesn't really stay in his lungs. Just buys him another second.

"So," Bruce prods gently, putting his elbows on the table as he leans forward, "what is it you wanted to talk about?"

Tim swallows hard at that. It's funny, because as much as Tim's the one who invited Bruce in, he can't fight off the cagey feeling he's struck with. He's not good at opening up—never has been. It's closer to pulling teeth than talking, actually, and Tim's second guessing why he feels like he owes an explanation to his boss. Bruce has been a good friend, though. The man deserves as much.

"Dana… She's not getting better. Not getting any worse either, but…" Tim nods shortly, attention riveted to the sheen of the maple tabletop. "It could be a while, and technically, we're only related through my dad, so stuff's kinda complicated right now, legally speaking."

It's a good thing all those galas have trained Bruce to be clever when it comes to conversation, if not too clinical. "…What does that mean for you?"

Tim thinks of a way to explain his situation, but he can't come up with one: Explaining is like admitting to himself it's the truth. In the end, the teen simply waves to the pile of research that's been exorcised to the edge of the table, giving Bruce permission to look it over. The shifting of papers is audible in the next instant, a thoughtful slowness in the way Bruce scans them. Tim can't bear to watch the man put the pieces together, so he simply lets his forehead slip into one of his hands and holds his breath.

"Foster care?"

Tim nods weakly. It feels condemning when said aloud, even more so when it's said by someone else. It might not even be that bad, really. He could end up with a good family and a good life, but it's the virtue of the thing, of changes and instability, that get Tim more than anything else.

In the next instant, the papers are set aside with a painful kind of calm, and Tim can hear the contemplation in Bruce's voice. "When did you find out?"

"Last night. I called the caseworker this morning." Tim's hand falls back to the table, lifeless. He feels even worse somehow now that he's gotten it off his chest, and he can't bear to look Bruce in the eye. "I don't really know how long I've got left here. It's kinda last minute, so there's no guarantee I can stay in Gotham. Probably'll have to change schools." Tim motions to the apartment lamely. "Definitely can't stay here."

Bruce stays quiet for a moment, considering. The silence has a measurable weight to it that's shrouding the light out of the air. "They still haven't found someone for you yet, then?"

"No. I'm getting picked up at six tonight, though. They're setting me up in a temp home on the mainland, just until they find a place."

Bruce goes quiet again, working his jaw.

Tim doesn't expect him to say anything that'll make this better, so he decides to save the man the pressure. Tim inhales swiftly, pushing himself up from his chair. "Anyway, I just… I thought you should know that. I don't know if I'll be able to intern next summer, so…you know."

Bruce's eyes snap to him suddenly, register the meaning there. _This is goodbye_, is what Tim's implying. The teen waits there awkwardly for a moment, not quite sure what parting words to use. Bruce looks like he feels the same as he shifts to a stand, even more so when Tim offers to shake his hand.

It's oddly similar to the first time they met, only Tim never would've guessed this would be how they'd part ways. He imagined something more sterile when he started this job. A curt goodbye in passing. A nod of acknowledgement, maybe. He hadn't anticipated the hollow ache in his chest, like someone else in his life has died and he's only now realized he needs to mourn the loss.

"Thank you," Tim works out. The words rub against the rising tightness in his throat, but he needs to say them. "Really, I… Thank you. For everything."

Bruce doesn't move, just studies Tim's still-extended hand with pinched eyebrows. Tim's arm starts getting tired from being raised for so long. Right before he considers dropping it altogether, Bruce's gaze flickers up.

"Where do I sign?"

Tim freezes instantly. "What?"

Bruce doesn't even flinch, calm as ever like this is the only sensible thing in the world. "I'll adopt you. You can stay in Gotham that way, still go to school here."

Tim feels like his stomach's hit his feet. He shouldn't have told him, shouldn't have made himself out to be a charity case, because Bruce is too sacrificial at all the worst times; the last thing Tim wants to be is an inconvenience. "Bruce, you don't… It's fine. Seriously. You've already done more than enough for me. You don't have to do that."

The man instantly shakes his head. "No, I don't have to. But I want to." His eyes are hardened with some kind of truth that seems as though it's only welling up for the first time. Tim spends a second searching Bruce's expression, anyway, hunting for something that says the words aren't honest, but they are. "It's up to you, of course. The last thing I want is to force you to do something you don't want to do. But, on the off chance that it is, I'd be more than happy to have you. You're a good kid, Tim, and..." Bruce looks tentative, candid. "I'll owe you for that more than you'll ever know."

Tim understands what he's referring to, but it still hits him hard. Tim didn't do much for him, really, when they first met. All he did was shoot Bruce small smiles and tiny waves when the man seemed down. Nothing invasive or overly personal, but it must have meant a lot. Tim never realized how much.

"There's plenty of space at the Manor, too," Bruce continues hesitantly, building a case. "Money wouldn't be an obstacle, and I'm sure Alfred would love to have you with us."

The man keeps talking, mentioning small things that Tim only half-grasps because there's an empty, isolated part of himself that's struggling to hold everything together. He's been putting his emotions in a box all week, attempting to tie them up in knots that unravel and constrict him instead. They've been crushing the air in his lungs, turning it heavy and solid, and it's the same now.

Tim's got his head ducked, trying to hide the wash of emotions flooding his face. He wants to tell Bruce to stop talking, to turn away and close the door behind him, because the man's probably thinking they're having a breakthrough of sorts when all that's happening is Tim breaking apart in the exact way he's been trying not to. Somehow, he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

Bruce is still saying something. Tim's been listening against his better judgement, because a portion of him wants to know, needs to, and the instant Bruce mentions Dad, admits he could never replace him but would try to—That's what undoes him.

And that's really all Tim hears.

Because some dam in him breaks, shatters right then and there, and the force of it pushes him to take a step forward. Bruce must think Tim is falling, because he meets him halfway, and it's easy to choke out a laugh at that. Tim doesn't know why it's that way, but even though he knows he's crying, laughing is somehow easier now than it was a moment ago, like emotions flipped back on and he hadn't realized how many feelings he was actually experiencing.

Bruce has to think he's lost it. But for whatever reason, he doesn't let him go, and Tim's too far gone to look up and meet his expression for an answer as to why. There's still something nice about being this close to someone, despite it being simpler to run clear the other way. It's a warmth that Tim drowns in for a while, unsure how much it's welcomed, but Bruce is hugging him back. He's slightly gauche about it like embraces aren't something he's familiar with but is willing to learn. There's something to be said for that.

It takes a full minute for Tim to start feeling embarrassed, and he slowly pushes himself back, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"You're fine," Bruce insists when Tim tries to apologize. He whisks out a pocket square and hands it to him.

Tim's voice is still too tight to do much more than thank him, eyes overlayed with a thin coating of saline, but he feels better than he did earlier.

Bruce gives him time to get himself back in check before talking again. "You're getting picked up at six, you said?" Tim affirms it with a bob of his head. "I understand that this is a big decision. If you need time to think things over, you should probably go with the caseworker and sleep on it. Or talk to your stepmother and see what she has to say. Like I said, it's up to you. You won't hurt my feelings either way."

Tim rubs the pocket square between his fingers pensively, watching the silvery paisley dance in the light. Dana's words from the other day are setting in, and there's a deep-seated grain of truth in them. "I think Dana'd want me to," Tim says quietly, folding the cloth and handing it back. "My dad too. They'd want me to be happy." It's the first time Tim's been able to look Bruce in the eye for a while now, and he's surprised that he can pull off a smile, however small. "Let's do it."

Bruce seems surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." It's a decision that comes out in a syllable but immediately lifts a huge weight off Tim's shoulders. It's still nerve-wracking but a different breed of it, one that's more hopeful and fits, like there's no other answer Tim could possibly give.

"Alright then," Bruce breathes, reeling slightly as if he's shocked how smoothly the whole thing went over. Tim can practically see the check list running behind the man's pupils as he pulls out his phone. "Could you give me the contact information for your caseworker? I'll have to call her as soon as possible, and I'll need to get in touch with my lawyer, too."

Tim spends a hot second scrambling to find the business card in his pile of papers, and once he does, Bruce excuses himself to a different room to make the calls. The man uses his free hand to gesticulate toward the bag of food Tim had placed on the counter earlier ("You can start without me.") before he disappears.

Tim will eat some, but for the moment, he flops back into his dining chair, dumbfounded by the way the past ten minutes have gone. It's a lot of emotions to sort through, although perhaps that's not such a bad thing. Tim's beginning to process them all while vetting the footwear in the entryway. Dad and Dana's shoes remain preserved in their places like statues. The difference is that Bruce's are there now too, a reminder that Tim's not alone anymore, that he doesn't have to be.

Tim's hasty to rub away the new wave of tears that try to eek out. They're from happiness more than anything else, and the change of pace is one Tim can enjoy.

Of course, his stomach butts into the moment with a dying-animal whine. It's pathetic enough that it spurs Tim into a laugh. He quickly decides food isn't such a bad idea after all and nestles himself on the counter with a bowl of curry, chewing it slowly.

He can catch the low rumble of Bruce's voice in the other room through the walls. The sound's a comforting one, familiar, and it makes the apartment feel lived in again the way it used to, the way he wants to remember it. Tim feels like he can say goodbye to the place now without any regrets, so he closes his eyes and listens to the soft voice of someone who cares about him. The reality of it reassures him that things will be okay, and maybe, just maybe, Tim's starting to believe it.


	6. A Premonition of Drift-Design (Epilogue)

**Chapter Six: A Premonition of Drift-Design (Epilogue)**

Tim takes a deep breath of salt air. It's collecting on his face, weaving through his hair, and the sound of loose waves and bird calls thrum in his ears against the wind. There are cusps of sunlight, too, twisting on the water just below his sneakers. Part of Tim wonders if he won't get sunburned from looking out over the ocean for so long but decides the baking warmth is worth it.

Tim hasn't been out to these docks in a long time. He used to a lot, back when he was still adapting to life at the Manor. Anymore, it's a rarity that he comes here, but like he said, it's been a while, and this part of the pier remains a piece of Dad that's safe enough to interact with. It's all soft memories that Tim can enjoy without overthinking, more personal than the cemetery and less scathing than the alleyway.

Still, whenever he comes here, Tim's never quite sure what to say.

"Sorry it's been so long, Dad," Tim mumbles awkwardly, swinging his feet. His arms are crossed on the bottommost railing off the pier, the noon-heat from the metal easing through the sleeves of his shirt so hot that it's just shy of burning. An array of people are out on the boardwalk around him, couples and families and joggers with their dogs. "It's been kinda busy for me lately," Tim says, keeping his voice low. "You understand."

The waves kick up in response.

"Yeah," Tim nods. "Don't worry about her. Dana's doing fine. Alfred and I visited her this morning, actually. She's exercising again, thinking about running a marathon in a few months." Tim slouches deeper against the railing, sitting his chin on the tops of his folded arms. "I think she can do it. The doctors say she'll be well enough by then to try."

The conversation flatlines then. Tim and Dad weren't distant, but they weren't exactly close either. It makes it hard to imagine what all the man would want to hear about, so Tim does his best.

"Um, I'm starting senior year next week," the teen offers with strained optimism. "Ives and I still hang out, so that's going good. Been looking at colleges, too, but—well, I'm thinking of maybe making W.E. a full-time thing. I was wondering what you thought about that…."

Tim's gaze flickers up from his sneakers to notice the ocean's evened out.

Nothing.

Tim picks at his fingernails to distract himself. "I guess I've still got time to think about it," he admits. "I mean, I'm still seventeen, right? Got my whole life ahead of me. Or, that's probably what you'd say, anyway." Tim's not sure, and nothing in the air changes to supply celestial support. He does his best to keep the conversation alive. "But don't worry. I'm doing okay. You know me. And Bruce is great. I know you didn't get along when you were around, but he's really helped me out." Tim chews at the inside of his cheek for a minute, wincing a bit when he realizes he tore off a hangnail. The teen forces himself to lock his hands around his elbows instead.

"I'm still getting used to the last name, though," Tim laughs, albeit a bit uncomfortably. "The Drake's still there, but it's like an essay to write my name now. Got a nice ring to it, though. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne."

Still nothing.

Tim wilts at that. "Well, I think it's cool, anyway," he mutters weakly before letting his forehead slip down into his arms, defeated. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm fine. But I still miss you, Dad."

What Tim craves at this exact moment is a sign. Something interpretable that means the sentiment is returned, as much as he's not really expecting it to be. He hears people talk about clouds giving way to sunlight, that it's a message from the beyond, but the time of day isn't right for anything like that right now. There's just stuccoed stratocumulus plastered over blue. Uneventful. Tim doesn't even bother to look up to see.

He sighs and tightens the cross of his arms, letting the condensation of his breaths get trapped in his long-sleeve while passerby continue talking around him. There's a privacy to the crowd that makes it a surprise when someone breaks through the din to address him.

"Is this seat taken?"

Tim blinks into the darkness of his sleeves for a moment. He knows who it is by the voice, but he still rotates his face so that his cheek rests on his arms, double-checking the blue eyes and business suit so sharp it's endemic solely to board rooms.

Eventually, Tim shakes his head. "No," he answers, still a bit taken aback. There's a gentle second in which someone settles beside him, a line of heat blooming where there's contact along Tim's side. The proximity is calm.

"Long day?" Bruce asks sympathetically, the tone of it implying he already knows.

"I just miss him more today," Tim shrugs, not looking away from Bruce but not looking directly at him either. He's watching a cluster of boats just to the right of the man's head. They're all a perfect-white with shimmering reflections that stretch and skip the waves.

Bruce maintains a pensive quiet, so Tim nudges the man's dress shoe after a while. "I'll be fine," the teen reassures, finally glancing Bruce's way with a half-smile. "Sorry if I made you worry."

Bruce doesn't return the smile, but he does drape an arm around Tim's shoulders, pulling him closer against him. He feels warm, and Tim closes his eyes. "I understand," Bruce says. "It's been a long year for you."

"Yeah…" Tim exhales, shifting until he's comfortable. It's been a long year for the both of them, actually, legal documents and press conferences for Bruce, moving boxes and a new name for Tim. The struggles were worth it, though, Tim thinks, as he breathes in the faint cologne of someone who nowadays means home. It's hard to imagine a time when they never knew the other existed.

"Anything I can do?" Bruce's voice rumbles in the present.

Tim shakes his head, opening his eyes to fiddle with the watch on Bruce's free wrist. It's the same one Tim got him last June, a sleek brown band with sterling silver. Bruce never takes it off. "Just wanna sit for a while," Tim says, tilting the watch face once to see the light slide. "Do you have time?"

Tim can feel Bruce nod against his head. "Of course."

If it weren't for the relief Tim feels at that, he would probably say something, because despite having recently finished off another summer, Tim still has ears at W.E. via Tam; he knows Bruce is shirking Mathis again. Tim doesn't point that out, however, merely leans back into Bruce's shoulder and people-watches. There's a younger family on the far end of the pier that's setting up outdoor chairs next to their tackle boxes, and one of the kids points to a flock of seagulls that likely means fish. The nostalgia makes Tim feel years over his age, almost tired with it.

Bruce's head turns in the same direction as Tim's, curious. Two pairs of eyes must be too many, though, because the oldest man in the family notices, the one wearing polarized shades and socks with sandals. Tim instantly moves to look away, politely embarrassed for staring, but both Bruce and the man wave cordially to each other like it's some kind of dad code to do so, and just like that, Tim's back to being a kid again.

"You hungry?" Bruce offers after another minute, clearly unfazed.

"Only if you let me pay, I am."

Bruce hums as if he's actually considering it, instilling a false sense of hope. "You can pick up the check next time," he promises, and Tim fights the urge to remind him that's what he said last time. (And the time before that, and the time before that...) But then Bruce pulls away enough to ruffle Tim's hair, effectively settling the argument, and really, Tim can't remember to stay upset after that.

"You're picking the place at least," Tim concedes sheepishly, letting Bruce help him to a stand.

"I think I can manage that."

"Uh-huh," Tim drones, battling away a grin when Bruce returns an arm around his shoulders. The teen's being honest when he adds, "Thanks, B."

"Anytime," Bruce replies instantly, easily.

Everything between them is that way now, having a comfortable naturalness to it. It continues to strike Tim how, even after a year of calling each other family, they used to be nothing more than strangers. Then again, perhaps that's just the way life is: that in the same way two people can drift apart, two people can also drift together, be made into something more by the tides of life. Tim likes to think, in quiet moments like these when he catches Bruce smile, that that's something by design.

End.

* * *

_AN: Thanks for reading! _


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